


through the long fingers of a silent god

by deathlessaphrodite



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:44:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathlessaphrodite/pseuds/deathlessaphrodite
Summary: When he’d remembered Tevinter, when he’d described it to the Inquisitor, or spoke of it with Krem or the Bull, he’d remembered some fresh, golden place, wherein the air was alive with magic and spice, and grand balls were held nightly, and the food was good.He had forgotten how dreadfully dreary Qarinus was during the autumn.





	1. i shall gather myself into myself again

**_I shall gather myself into myself again,_ **

**_I shall take my scattered selves and make them one. -_ ** **Sara Teasdale, from** **_The Crystal Gazer_ ** **in “Dark Of The Moon″**

 

When he’d remembered Tevinter, when he’d described it to the Inquisitor, or spoke of it with Krem or the Bull, he’d remembered some fresh, golden place, wherein the air was alive with magic and spice, and grand balls were held nightly, and the food was good.

 

He had forgotten how dreadfully dreary Qarinus was during the autumn. He’d truly picked the worst time to travel. For all his complaining about Ferelden mud, there might’ve been just as much here - Krem had said as much to him, once: _You must’ve really lived a charmed life, Altus, to never have seen mud before coming here._

 

Dorian wasn’t truly in Qarinus, at that moment, but rather a few leagues outside of the city. His mother’s summer house was far enough away to be called a summer house, but not too far that it would have been a struggle to get to any civilization - as she had always liked it. There was a lake there, predictably man-made, and a large glass conservatory that would truly be miserable in this weather, but was usually quite lovely in the summer, or so he remembered. He hadn’t been back since just before he’d left, and then he’d only stayed a few weeks or so.

 

“We’ve arrived, Lord Dorian,” Called the coachman, rapping on the window. He’d picked Dorian up at the docks, saying he’d been sent by his mother. He’d been tempted to call down another for only a moment, before the exhaustion of the journey had hit him and he’d reviled the idea of trying to find someone willing to take him out of the city.

 

“Thank you, good man,” He said, stepping out of the carriage and dropping some coins into the man’s open palm. He’d only packed a trunk of things, pitifully, though the Bull teased him for all his many clothes, and so it took no time at all for him to be left alone, standing in the foyer of his mother’s house, with the doorman apologizing profusely for the so-called disarray of the place.

 

“The house is closed for the season, you see, my lord,” He said, clearly waiting for some kind of reprimand. Dorian despaired at his younger self, who must have been dreadfully unkind to the servants, and waved the man off.

  
“Don’t make any kind of fuss on my behalf,” He replied, smiling, “I hope not to spend too much time here,” The man bowed, and carried his trunk up the stairs. Dorian wondered if they’d put him in his old room. It’d certainly be a turn of events. Spending so much time trying to get away from this old place and ending up back in the very same bed.

 

The house was, most definitely, closed for the season. The furniture in most of the rooms was covered, and the door to the conservatory which Dorian had remembered so fondly was tightly locked. The place was not dusty, at least not so far as he could see, clearly as his mother had sent servants ahead of him, the poor things. Being stuck in this house with only himself and one another for company would be a recipe for madness, if he was going to wander around in a similar melancholy to the one he’d arrived in.

 

His footsteps reverberated unpleasantly loudly on the marble tiles which covered the place. It was bitingly cold, compared to Skyhold - not _cold,_ as Tevinter was always slightly warm even when it was drizzling as it was now, but _hard._ Everything had an edge to it, everything some kind of bite. What was it Vivienne had said? _You pretend to be a shark from a land of sharks._ This was a shark’s house, and she had been right; he was not shark. Dorian felt very deeply that he wanted to go home.

 

Eventually, the footman - Flavius, he would have to remember, reverting back into the old ways just wouldn’t do - found him and took him to his room. Not his old one, in the end, one of the guest rooms, at the front of the house.

 

Dorian wondered if he should’ve sent word to his mother at his arrival. Of course, the coachman would’ve told her - it would be half her reason for sending him, certainly - but as a show of good faith, perhaps. Regardless of what had transpired between him and his father, his mother had no hand in it - had been away in Minrathous visiting friends for most of the time he’d been kept in the house, though she’d known of it, almost certainly. _Perhaps I am too forgiving,_ he thought, and then laughed at himself. No one could ever have called him _too_ forgiving, before he left - perhaps the South had made him soft.

 

He skipped his mother, and wrote instead to Maevaris, on the cream, monogrammed paper his mother kept at all the desks, but with his own pen - a gift from Josephine, the morning of his departure - and asked it to be sent right away. He watched the poor messenger boy ride away, in the downpour of rain, mud splashing at his horses heels.

  


It was strange, the next morning, when one of the men came in to help him dress. He’d gotten rather used to doing it himself.

 

Breakfast was a rather meager affair, compared to what Dorian remembered, for which Gallus - the doorman turned house overseer, given the short staffed-ness of the place - apologised profusely. Dorian once again waved him away, and he hadn’t been gone for a moment before another arrived with a letter, from Mae.

 

_Darling Dorian,_

 

_I am so glad you wrote me when you did! I was planning to make my way_ _back to Minrathous soon, perhaps at the end of the week, but obviously I_ _will postpone those plans                now. So much to catch up on!_

 

_I’ve told the messenger boy to stay with us tonight, given the rain, and to_ _leave with this at first light, I hope you don’t mind. I’ll stop by around_ _mid-afternoon, if you’ve no               objections, though you could come to me here,_ _of course. I wouldn’t mind in the slightest having you over, and you could_ _stay as long as you liked. Could I persuade you to                 come to Minrathous_ _with me, when I absolutely must go back? Your company would be most_ _greatly appreciated, but we’ll talk of it when I see you._

 

_Yours, joyously,_

_M.T._

 

The rain had abated somewhat, and he walked out in the gardens for a time. The lake looked still and glassy. A mirror, a window. He picked up a rock and threw it in. It broke, for a moment, and then came all back together.

 

“Dorian!” A call from the door, which seemed leagues away from where he stood. It was Mae, of course, dressed in grey silk, to her knees. She looked as if she had started a new fashion trend rolling out of bed that morning.

 

She met him halfway across the gardens, the heels of her shoes sinking into the mud, and when they did finally reach one another she kissed on both cheeks, twice, laughing delightedly the whole time. Her nails pricked him in the wrists when she took his hands, but he didn’t mind. He was so utterly relieved to be seeing her again.

 

“Oh, Dorian,” She said, dragging him back to the house, “It has been far too long, my dear friend,”

 

“Far, far too long!” He says, slipping his arm through hers. Her hair had grown much longer since he’d last seen her, and was tied neatly in a bun at the back of her neck, “I must say, you look well,”

 

“Because I looked positively ghastly the last time you saw me!” She laughed, “You look well, too, my dear. Though, we must get you into some new clothes. Those are at least five seasons out of fashion,” He couldn’t help himself but to laugh with her. _She reminds me so much of home,_ he thought, and then realised he _was_ home, or supposed to be.

 

“What’s all this about you cancelling plans for me, Mae?” He said, once they’d reached a sitting room that wasn’t draped in white cloth, and had called for wine, “You needn’t do anything on my behalf,”

 

“Darling, you say that, but if I had upped and left in the same week you’d come, you’d have sulked for a month,” She patted him softly on the cheek, “And nevertheless, I wanted to stay. You are far better company than the upstarts I’m forced to spend my time with in Minrathous,”

 

“They can’t be so bad, surely,” He poured the wine, warm and laced with spices, between two glasses, “They’ve backed you so far,”

 

“Of course, they’re very optimistic. I sometimes feel as if I’m playing the cynic, just to put the world to rights, and that has not been my usual role, as you’re well aware,” He had to smile at that. Mae had always been trying to push him into positive thinking, “Enough of that sort of talk, though! Tell me about the rustic South,” She took a sip of her wine, smiling, “Was everyone as charming and crude as their letters made them seem?”

 

Dorian laughed at that, “Not half as charming, and twice as crude,” He stared down at the chipped lacquer on his nails. He should’ve painted them that morning, but had been quite taken by Mae’s letter, instead, “But they are good people. Better than most I’ve known,”

 

Mae, halfway through swallowing another mouthful of wine, widened her eyes in an approximation of _better than me?!_

 

“Well, I am shamed I never made the journey to meet them, then,” She said, once she had placed her glass down on the table next to her, “I hope I do get to. Perhaps if you make the journey back, I’ll accompany you,”

 

He sighed. He had been dreading thinking about it, but, “I don’t know if I will go back, Mae,” He smiled, trying to look as light as he’d felt a moment ago, and failing miserably, “There are things I must do here. I’d never get a moments peace, knowing there was work to be done as I whiled away the hours playing mercenary for the Inquisition,”

 

“Oh, my darling,” Mae leaned toward him, her ankles crossed, “This place has made you suffer enough. I don’t think anyone would blame you for staying away,”

 

He stood, and poured himself more wine, “ _I_ would,” He offered her some, and placed the decanter back upon the table when she refused, “And ‘this place’ has made you suffer twice more than I. You still fight to put it to rights,” He looked back out to the windows to that lake - how many times had he and his mother sat there, pointedly not talking about very pointed things?

 

Dorian struggled, sometimes, to remember one moment when he and his mother had been happy around one another. There had been times when they’d been _content_ around one another, perhaps. And once he’d gotten old enough that he and his father started fighting, it had been nice to have someone around who disliked him just as much as Dorian did. There was a solace in hatred, but there was no peace there.

 

“Mae, do you know how my mother is?” _That was a strange way to phrase it_ , he thought. It didn’t matter. Mae would understand.

 

She laughed, “My dear, we hardly frequent the same parties,” She leaned back in her chair, elbows on the arm rests, “And a very abrupt change of subject, I might add. Someone should have taught you such things are bad manners,” He rolled his eyes, and mumbled a _yes, yes,_ before sitting down again, across from her, “From what I have seen, she seems well enough. Your father spends most of his time in Minrathous,” She grimaced, “I know this because I have the pleasure of seeing him quite often. Thereby, your mother has the Qarinus estate to herself, largely,”

 

_It must be lonely,_ Dorian thought, _To be alone in that big house. I’d go mad._

 

Maybe that was why she was the way she was. She’d spent too long on her own, and it’d addled her mind, “It’s good to hear she’s well, I suppose.”

 

Mae raised her eyebrows. Dorian laughed at her, and she stood, “Darling, I’ll leave you to settle in. We’ll have dinner, though, tomorrow night? I’ll send a carriage for you, and we’ll spend the next day at the tailors, I think,” She gestured once more to his attire, before kissing him again, and flouncing away, waving over her shoulder.

  


_Dorian,_

_The Inquisitor is sending us down into the Deep Roads. If you don’t hear_ _from me, that’s why. I hope the journey was alright, and that everything’s_ _well there. Krem told me to            tell you to tell Tevinter to go fuck itself. I told_ _him you probably already had._

_We all miss you, down here, but there’s_ _been no trouble. People have been dropping like flies, though. Seems you started a trend - Varric is back in Kirkwall, and Cole is to join            him at the end of the month. He didn’t tell anybody he was going, just said goodbye the morning of. You might’ve been able to hear Cassandra fuming from out there._

         _I’ll try and keep this short. I was going to go to Val Royeaux, to get that perfume you like, but there hasn’t been time. You’ll find a new favourite perfume out there, I’m sure. I              miss you. Write soon, even if I won’t get it right away, and date your letters._

_Yours, B._

 

Dorian felt beastly that he hadn’t written in the time he’d been there. Dinner with Mae, a trip to the tailors (the new colours were neutral tones - dreadfully boring, in Dorian’s opinion), dinner with Mae _again,_ and he’d forgotten to write to anyone, let alone the Bull.

 

_You’ll find a new favourite perfume out there soon, I’m sure,_ he’d written. Dorian couldn’t tell if he was actually talking about the perfume or not. He shouldn’t have worried - Vivienne had given him a veritable cache of the stuff when he left. Jasmine, with amber and musk. He and Bull had picked it up on one of the days they’d been in the city. _Smells like the forest in Seheron,_ the Bull had said. _Smells like a youth’s first party,_ Dorian had said, and bought it anyway. It hadn’t been because he liked it. It had been because the Bull liked it, of course it had been.

 

He should’ve told him. There were half a dozen things he should’ve said before he left. He might never get a chance to say them, now.

 

_Did you ever love my father like this, Mother?_ He thought, _Was there ever anything you should’ve said to him?_ The thought that she’d loved him once made him sad. The thought that they’d never loved one another at all made him even more sad than that.

 

_At least I have that,_ he thought, taking out some paper and his pen, _At least I love him, even if he doesn’t know it._   
  
Somewhere outside, the sun was finally starting to shine. Dorian began to write.

  
  
  
  



	2. sorry righteous and wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The place was the same. They’d built it with white brick, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. It was monolithic, swallowing, a great white beast. 
> 
> Walking into the drawing room was like walking into the stomach. It was his mother’s domain - the rug on the floor was different, but the same old-blood brown-red it had been, and the walls had the same murals on them, which were supposed to show meetings in the Magisterium, Dorian knew, but were done in the same reds and browns. He’d always thought it looked like something sinister was going on.

The house, predictably, silent. His mother had never been one for music, or company.

 

“Her Ladyship will see you in the drawing room, Lord Dorian,” said one of the footmen. Dorian didn’t recognise him, but the place was the same. They’d built it with white brick, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. It was monolithic, swallowing, a great white beast.

 

Walking into the drawing room was like walking into the stomach. It was his mother’s domain - the rug on the floor was different, but the same old-blood brown-red it had been, and the walls had the same murals on them, which were supposed to show meetings in the Magisterium, Dorian knew, but were done in the same reds and browns. He’d always thought it looked like something sinister was going on.

 

The drapes were red, the stained-glass windows flung open - the rain had broken and given way to choking heat - and in the middle of it all, Aquinea Thalrissian, dressed in grey-silver and holding a heavy goblet of wine almost to her lips.

 

She stopped, simply looking at him, as if taken aback. She took only a moment to gather herself, and said, “It is so nice of my son to visit me. Of course, a stranger might as well be standing before me, it has been so long since I have set eyes upon him,”

 

He swallowed. She had a streak of grey in her hair which had not been there the last time they’d seen each other, and her eye make-up was darker than she’d ever done it before. Her hands were veined and shaking.

 

“You knew my whereabouts, if you wanted to see me so badly,” He snapped back. It was strange how just being in a room with her turned him into a badly-mannered teenager again. Not that his manners as an adult had been particularly immaculate.

 

“To travel out of the city in that weather would have been a folly. And I wondered how long it would take you to come,” Her Ladyship set the goblet down on the table next to her, and waved the footman away. Dorian wished she would offer him some wine. She wouldn’t. The footman closed the door behind him, and Dorian took a seat, ignoring the way his heart skipped. The last time a door had been closed behind him in this house, he had walked out with scars and nightmares to last a lifetime.

 

“The letter you wrote was predictably brief. I had expected better from the boy I taught his words,”

 

“I had little to say, Mother,” Her nails were long and unpainted. The chairs and sofas were embroidered with tiny beads, thousands of them, like ants. His mother had liked the style, something she had never gotten tired of. It warmed him to see, despite everything, that she had retained some of herself, “Are you well, Mother?”

 

She breathed in deeply, and took another sip of her wine, “I’ve had a chill this past few months, but I’m well enough. The rain makes my knee ache badly, as it always did,” An injury she’d gotten when she was very young, in the Tevinter army. She’d served only a few months, left after getting hurt, and soon after had married his father, “But I am well enough,” She said, again, “And you, my boy?”

 

“Well enough,” Dorian mimicked, “I’ve picked up a few aches, myself, but nothing that bothers me greatly,” _Tell her about them,_ he thought, _Tell her about him, and ask what you want to ask,_ “Glad to be in the warm, after the chill of the South,”

 

Aquinea gave him that look she gave him when she wanted to pull something out of him, “You know damn well I do not care about the weather, Dorian Pavus,” She breathed in deeply, rubbed a hand across her forehead, and exhaled, “I am not going to crawl around weeping and begging your forgiveness. What your father tried to do was monstrous, and I would not have let it stand if I had any sort of sway over him at all. Your staying away so long is understandable, and it would be understandable if you turned tail and ran back to your new friends in the Inquisition,”

 

She stood, with difficulty, and, leaning on her cane, came to loom over him, “But my son does not turn tail, and I know it. So I will caution you to be careful in whatever you plan, but ask that if you get yourself into any sort of trouble again,” She had a look in her eyes that he had not seen before, “That you will come to your mother.”

 

His mother lifted a hand to his cheek, for only a small moment, before she swept out of the red, red room, cane tapping on the cold floor. The wind rustled the drapes. Dorian felt as if a dragon had looked him in the eyes and decided it didn’t want to eat him, after all.

 

_The Iron Bull,_

_I am sorry I’ve taken so long to write. I’ve been sorting some things out_ _here -_ _where to live, for one, and who’s coin I’m going to be eating on._ _Things are so much easier when you have an all-powerful military_ _organization at your back, but alas._

_The mission in the Deep Roads is going well, I hope? I would have heard_

_if you had been squished by a boulder by now, I think. Tell me about it when you’ve time to write. I never thought I’d say it, but I do miss your stories, embellished and bawdy as they are. Tell one about me, at the tavern, once you’re back at Skyhold. I don’t even mind if it’s explicit. I’d just like people to remember me, if that doesn’t seem to full of myself._

_Tell Krem I’ve fulfilled his wish, a hundred times over, outloud and not. Tell him my friend Mae says there’s a job here, if he wants one, though I’ve made her aware he’d rather swim through shit than come back here. Tell him I miss him, as well, though tell him I told you not to._

_My mother and I have been talking again. We’ve been having lunch, most often in the city, though on one occasion she did come to Mae’s, where I’ve been staying, for dinner. The last time I was here, Mae always threw these wonderful parties, but now she seems too busy with work to bother with them. I have to say I am grateful - either no one would know me, or everyone would, and I can’t decide which would be worse._

_I feel as if I’ve been talking about nothing, so I’ll get to the point: I miss you dreadfully, as well as everyone else, and hope you’re well. I hope you’re sleeping enough, eating enough, and I hope you aren’t too filled with anguish over my departure, though it would be nice if you were, a little._

_Truly, though. I do not know how to put into words exactly how much I miss you sometimes. I have one of your shirts here, which I must have picked up entirely accidentally, and shamefully I have been wearing it as often as I can excuse. It does not smell of you, but then, it never did - I think you wore it maybe once. It is simply a comfort, as you were._

_I’ll keep writing until you write back. Even if you do die in that hole, I’ll keep writing._

_Yours,_

_Dorian._

 

Mae’s house was substantially more lively than the summerhouse had been. It had a

better library, too, and a laboratory for any magical experiments one might wish to undertake. The laboratory had been Thorald’s, in truth, and Mae didn’t use it all that often. Dorian remembered his younger days in there, when anything and everything that came to mind had to be tested.  

 

At breakfast, Mae ate fruit and read letters, occasionally remarking upon the more interesting among them. That morning, she called out, as he took his place, “My cousin-in-law in Kirkwall wishes you well, and says if you’d ever like to visit, you’ve a room at his. You’ve a letter from the South, by the way, with the Inquisition’s mark,”

 

“I’ll visit Kirkwall again in my next life, thank you,” He said, taking a piece of toast, trying to feign boredom, as if he wasn’t veritably giddy at the idea of a letter from Adaar.

 

“Varric’s really working very hard on rebuilding, you know,” She said, “It wouldn’t be so bad to go, not really,”

 

“Not if we stayed in the Keep, maybe,” He remembered sleeping in one of Kirkwall’s more run-down taverns, after he’d left Tevinter. He’d sold a ring, something someone had given him for one of his name-days, to get the money for the night, but then someone had stolen the rest of his coin by morning.

 

The footman finally arrived with the letter. Dorian used a butter knife to tear it open, to Mae’s protestation:

 

_Dorian!_

(Adaar always started her letters in such a way)

_We’re all missing you here, dreadfully. Sera told me so send_ _“two-fingers” and her well-wishes, and Cassandra said that she’d_ _write when she had the time. She’s off, doing Seeker things, now._

_I don’t want to start out by being self-pitying, but I am feeling lonely,_ _now. Most people have taken off, in some way or another - you’ll_ _have heard about my sending the Chargers to the Deep Roads. I_ _wanted to go myself, but I’ve so much diplomatic bullshit to deal_ _with it’s making me weep. So I’m all alone out here, save for Josie_ _and Cullen and Sera. And Scout Harding, who’s taken on some of_ _Leliana’s duties since she left to do her Divine Things._

_Tell me everything that’s happened, won’t you? Give Mae my best, if you’ve seen her, and tell your father, if you see him, to shove it._

_With love,_

 

_H. Adaar_

 

He was glad she was well, at least, though wished he could ease the loneliness some,

as he wrote, a few hours later in one of Mae’s guest rooms. He asked how much trouble Sera had been in, how Josephine was, to pass on his love to Scout Harding. He waited until the last sentence to ask after the Chargers, as if she wouldn’t know it’s the thing he cared most about.

 

Mae appeared in his doorway as he was folding the letter, melting the wax for the seal - it had her initials on it, _MT,_ in swirling, reed-like lettering. She was wearing a floor-length pink dress, draped in black lace. She was an idol, an icon, his friend.

 

“Planning a trip?” She asked, coy.

 

He laughed, “Not so soon, my dear. Though -” He stopped and cleared his throat, “I find it dreadful not knowing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. If I were still with the Inquisition, I’d have that, at least,” _And I could be with the Chargers, in that hole,_ he thought.

 

“I know exactly what you’ll do!” She said, crossing the room to take his hands. The beading on her dress rattled as she moved, “You shall come to Minrathous with me. You cannot join the party officially, of course, without a seat, but you can show support,”

 

He looked down at their joined hands. She was wearing a dozen rings - the chipped, massive diamond Thorold had given her, a small ruby in a thin gold band Dorian had given her for her nameday one year, a sickly looking yellow stone he knew glowed if you twisted it right, a deadly looking iron thing fashioned to look like a spine. On one thumb, Thorold’s awful looking, heavy signet ring.

 

“A fantastic idea,” He said, “But how do you know anyone will listen to me?”

 

“The same reason I know they’ll listen to me, silly,” She smiled down at him, “Because I don’t give them a choice,”

 

He went with her, of course.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Marie Howe's poem "What I Did Wrong". The full quote is: "Years holding onto a rope that wasn't there, always sorry, righteous, and wrong." 
> 
> I'm not sure when I'll have the chance to get the next part up, but hopefully it'll be soon. Feel free to comment!


	3. beasts in the night, and delight and pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ship was called The Privateer, which Dorian thought was a terrible name for a boat. The waves beat against the hull, a steady, constant rhythm. Val Royeaux was just coming into view. Home, home, home. He had never liked the sea, but it didn’t bother him so much, now.

**_“This is everything I have to tell you about love: nothing._ **

**_This is everything I've learned about marriage: nothing._ **

 

**_Only that the world out there is complicated,_ **

**_and there are beasts in the night, and delight and pain,_ **

**_and the only thing that makes it okay, sometimes,_ **

**_is to reach out a hand in the darkness and find another hand to squeeze,_ **

**_and not to be alone.” -_ ** **Neil Gaiman,** **_Everything I Have To Tell You About Love_ **

 

The ship was called  _ The Privateer,  _ which Dorian thought was a terrible name for a boat. The waves beat against the hull, a steady, constant rhythm. Val Royeaux was just coming into view.  _ Home, home, home.  _ He had never liked the sea, but it didn’t bother him so much, now. 

 

There was an Orlesian retainer waiting for him on the docks, with men to carry his - now many - bags, and a carriage to take him the few hours to Halamshiral. A bundle of notes was passed his way, from Vivienne and the Inquisitor, Josephine, Varric, Cassandra. One from Sera, torn from a notebook,  _ Don’t be a stranger.  _ He tried to read through them as the carriage bumped along the Orlesian countryside, but found his mind wandering. No letter from Bull, or even a note,  _ I’m in the South Wing, come find me when you get here.  _ Dorian had imagined him a hundred times, a hundred ways, his voice, his one eye, the muscle in his jaw which jumped when clenched. The way he hummed solid, soothing songs while rewrapping the handle of his axe, the way his great chest moved when he breathed. What if he’d done all that imagining, and the Bull wasn’t waiting for him? 

 

He shouldn’t have worried. The Charger’s were waiting at the gates of Halamshiral - not the main gates of the main palace, of course, but of the guest house. They all crowded him, ruffling his hair. Krem gave him a quick squeeze, and then helped the others with getting his bags, complaining all the while. 

 

The Bull stood, tall and big and breathing, like he always had. He had a new eyepatch, and a few new scars - which Dorian would be asking about later - but other than that, he was as he had been when Dorian had left him. Except the look on his face, as soft as the inside of a cake. Maybe that had been like that then, too, but Dorian hadn’t seen, or hadn’t noticed. 

 

It was all he could do not to leap into his arms. He settled for -

 

“Hello,” He felt nervous, or giddy, or both, but couldn’t look away. The Bull had always drawn attention, had always been captivating and blinding at once. 

 

“Hi,” The Bull said. He cleared his throat, “It’s good to have you back,” He didn’t move from where he was standing, just outside the gates. He shoved his hands inside the deep pockets of his awful looking trousers, also nervous, also giddy. 

 

Dorian smiled, “It’s good to be home,” He reached for the Bull, who gave him his hand, the one with two fingers shortened by a longsword. Dorian looked at it, holding it in both of his own hands. He turned it over, so they stood palm to palm. He heard a Charger giggle behind him, and another shush them. 

 

“Dorian,” Bull said, the air seeming to leave him, “I want to talk about my  _ feelings,  _ Dorian,” 

 

Dorian smiled again (perhaps he was simply still smiling), “What a coincidence. Me too,”

 

Behind them, Halamshiral stood, a marble monstrosity sure to cause all kinds of trouble in the coming days. For now, the sun was warm, and the day just beginning. Dorian had in his hands perhaps the most important thing in the world. He reached up, finally, and kissed the man he loved on the lips, and together they gathered his things and stepped into the future together, whatever it held for them. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end!!!! hope you enjoyed! this last chapter is very short, but i didn't want to drag it out when i felt there was nothing more to write and i'd already finished the story. thanks for reading! feel free to comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter - I'm hoping to have the second and third parts up soon.
> 
> Title is from Stevie Edwards' "Daily Weather". Please feel free to comment, I'd love to hear from you!


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